


Songs for Cowards

by imperfectkreis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bethany Hawke comes to Skyhold. Krem notices, boy does he notice. (For kink meme)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Krem tries not to stare. Besides, she's just another Apostate mage at Skyhold, there are plenty of those wandering around. Though with her long, pale neck and sweeps of dark hair, she stands out a bit. All right, he’ll concede, she stands out a lot. 

The way her posture is perfectly straight. Ferelden accent, she's got to be noble, proud and poised as she is. Krem is used to titles buying safety. Even now he can't help but resent them a bit, the Inquisitor included. But mostly he keeps his head down, does as Bull tells him, gets paid. It's a good life under the Inquisition. Questionable methods be damned.

The next day he learns the woman with the long neck, soft hair, is Bethany Hawke, sister of the recently departed Champion. Rumors circulate about how the older Hawke's demise came about, but while the rumors are fun, are interesting, Krem doesn't put any stock in them. They're worth only slightly more than the coppers he loses at cards.

He does put stock in the way Bethany smiles at him before ascending the stairs to the upper levels of the tavern. Shaking off her gaze, Krem tries to set it aside. No one knows why the younger Hawke woman is here. 

Bull slaps him on the back, says Krem's got stars in his eyes. Not so bad, Bull says, he'd like to see under those fur lined robes too, given the chance.

The Chargers are deployed to the Hinterlands. Four to six weeks. It'll be good work, if tedious, clearing bears. Krem ends up covered in fur and guts by the end of each day. At night, in his tent next to Stitches, he can only think frustratingly of black hair and whiskey eyes.

Another round of long-stretched weeks in the tavern, listening to Bull try and tell jokes that barely make sense. Krem laughs at them anyway, because Chief isridiculous. Someone has got to have the courage to look stupid. Might as well be Bull.

Bethany comes at lunch time, asks Krem if he has seen the Commander. It strikes him as an odd question, but no, he hasn't. When she sighs, her chest heaves in such a luxurious way Krem is almost ashamed for having seen it. Almost. Not that the shame will stop him from dwelling on the little picturesque moment later.

When she comes in the evening, Krem asks her if she'd like to play cards. Furrowing her brow, Bethany says she doesn't know how. But she slides onto the bench next to him, all the same. A warmth by his side that jitters as they play. An hour later, she's winning. With a curl of her lip, she admits she learned to bluff from two of the best, a pirate and a thief. She will forever be indebted to them both.

"Ser Aclassi, you are very handsome." No sooner has it slipped from her mouth does she cover her face with her hand, as if she wishes she could take it back. Not because it is untrue, but because she has been too forward.

Bethany likes ale, not wine. The revelation surprises Krem, expecting different of a nobleman's daughter. He tells her as much and her smile fades.

"My father was no noble, he was a great man, but not a noble."

Krem tries to correct for his mistake, his lips still loose with liquor. "But they call you Lady Hawke, do they not?"

Her lips pursed in a thin line, "They called my sister that. I was only ever called apostate, until I was called enchanter."

Later, when he is alone, he kicks himself for his mistake.

When he sees Enchanter Bethany on the battlements, the way she looks at the Commander, Krem realizes realities in which he should have no part. He wants to burn the vision from his memory.

Her hands at his forearms, creeping higher to his shoulders, Krem wonders if the Inquisitor knows. But it's not his business. He should just keep his mouth shut, collect his coin, keep on killing his countrymen, turned against the stability of the continent as they are.

After three glasses of ale, Bethany's cheeks are rose-red, more than her cheeks, up to her temples, down the line of her neck. Krem has had more than three glasses. He wants to lick her skin clean, but he bets she can turn redder yet. Past her soft breasts, down her flat stomach, in waves of dark curls set even lower. She's done nothing, but he is mad with her.

He feels it though, when her hand brushes against his hesitantly, then pulls away. No way to miss that. She doesn't look at him, keeping her eyes on the cards before her, Krem can see all of them.

"I should walk you to your quarters, Bethany. You know, all those untrustworthy louts scumming around Skyhold."

The look of shock on Bethany's face is enough to tell him she believed him. He feels a little bad, a little. But the way her lips part does things to him.

This time, he takes her hand, tightens it when she doesn't pull away. 

"You're very kind to me, Ser Aclassi. Few at Skyhold are." Her black hair soaks the scant light from the torches, making it disappear as they cross the courtyard. 

"Krem," he corrects. "Krem."

She smiles, her hand still tangled with his. "Alright, Krem."


	2. Chapter 2

Once, in what felt like another life, one at the margins of poverty and unceasing threats, Bethany Hawke learned to second guess herself. That was a time when she was young, pretty, and afraid. Because she lived in a world where mages were meant to feel caution before they were ever meant to feel human. 

But being cautious does not mean she must live in fear in perpetuity. She loved her siblings, her mother, and her gift. Because above all those things, she loves the Maker. Loves him yet because her siblings, her mother, are gone. But her gift remains, and she means to use it to help heal the wound in the sky. Precious. 

Bethany Hawke joins the Inquisition without hesitance, but she second guesses herself.

She walks the battlements with Cullen when he has a moment to spare. They do not talk of “the Champion,” what happened to Bethany’s sister at Adamant, though questions remain. No one is willing to give Bethany a straight answer. Yet she knows something always remains. It lurks behind the eyes of those who were there. They do not talk about Kirkwall, where Bethany learned of monsters Cullen could never have forgotten in the first place. The demons that knock even now at the door of Bethany’s sanity, softly, pretending to be expected guests. But she has never yielded, and never will. And, finally, they do not talk of each other, because Cullen belongs to the Inquisitor. Whatever they may have once had has thinned with time, so only the barest film of their love remains. Yet, she knows something always remains.

Walking the courtyard at night, Cremisius Aclassi tells her it may not be safe. At first she wishes to respond that if the Inquisition’s stronghold is not safe for an Enchanter of her skill to walk at night, there is no place in Thedas where she may be safe. But, for two reasons, she says nothing.

First, it may, in fact, be true that no where will ever be safe for Bethany. She may never be alone, be haunted by ghosts of the dead, and hunted by those who cannot accept that she carries the Maker’s gift inside her. So, yes, Krem may be correct on that account.

Second, she knows well enough he has only said as much in the first place because he wishes to walk beside her. She wishes it as well. Her fingers run along the trim at the collar of her robes before she smooths them against her hair, it springs back up when she moves her hand away. 

“Would you walk with me, then?”

He smiles, so bright that it puts the lanterns to shame. Falling into step beside her, they say little, breathe much. They hold hands. His palms are warm, coarse, used to his great big maul that smashes tiny things. He smashes great things as well, turns them to glittering dust. Bethany has seen him train, lingered too long on his arms, the way his torso swells as he takes gulps of air, readying to strike again.

They walk like this on a succession of nights, taking ever more distant routes back to her quarters, long, looping stretches of silence and want. When she is certain she will not be caught, Bethany turns her head just slightly to watch the curve of his ear, just where his short-cropped hair stops. She watches his shoulders too, the tension that waits. 

Of course they wait. Because it is not only Bethany who second guesses herself.

When they reach her door, she squeezes his hand. Tells herself, ‘next time.’

The Chargers are already deployed to the Emerald Graves before she wakes in the morning. An hour later, she’s packing to travel to the Hinterlands. One by one, she folds her robes, oblivious to the fact they’ll just come undone in her pack. The repetition of folding calms her nerves.

The Inquisitor likes it when Bethany stands next to her during negotiations. When Bethany asks why, Lady Trevelyan responds that she has a trustworthy face, a nice nose too, both things the Inquisitor lacks. 

Upon return to Skyhold, weeks later, Krem greets them at the gates. He and a dozen other Inquisition agents looking for signatures and commands and assurances. Krem doesn’t press, instead waiting for everyone else to trickle away, for the sea of bodies to part. As if Bethany could focus on anyone but him. 

She throws her arms about his shoulders, asking him if everything has gone alright. His hands press against the small of her back. Though her robes are thick, she can make out each of his digits as the curl against her. She may dawdle with her cheek against his for too long, but his hair smells clean and crisp, while she’s sure she is covered in dirt. Traveling is never clean. But when she pulls back to take measure of his face, he’s smiling so wide she forgets herself. 

“Oh,” she doesn’t realize she’s stopped breathing until just then. 

Tilting his head to one side, Krem’s fingers tap against her spine. “Oh?”

Her arms fall from his shoulders, down the length of his arms, until his hands are in hers. And Bethany second guesses herself. “I must smell terrible?”

Krem laughs, weaves his fingers through her black hair. But he doesn’t answer the question.

“Right, right.” She pulls back. “I best wash.”

“Of course,” Krem straightens his posture, lets her leave. “Hopefully I will see you soon, Bethany.”

From his lips it sounds like a promise. Bethany wouldn’t dare break it. She covers her mouth with one hand, pressing her lips against it and trying not to run away. Oh, but she wants him, the heat of his body and the smell of his skin. She wants. 

In the bath, she rubs her hands between her thighs and imagines them to be Krem’s. Thinking of his lips against hers, the slick of their skin, Bethany imagines how his hair might fall, damp with sweat towards his forehead. How his eyes would look clouded with her image within them. She wants his attention, his affection, undivided. As the bathwater cools, she realizes her selfishness. 

He catches her by surprise, on her way to the tavern instead of from it. Taking her by the hand, he asks her about her doubts. She replies her only certainty is that the Maker loves them. The Maker’s love is for everyone. With that, he looks at her like she has been quite silly, with his lips parted and a flash of teeth. And she almost pulls away. Almost.

“Have you given yourself to the Maker, Enchanter?” he asks.

“I told you to call me Bethany,” she corrects. 

His thumb strokes against her wrist in a slow repetition. One of his nails has been bitten off, jagged. 

“I’d rather call you ‘lover.’” 

For a moment, she is not sure what she has heard. Because it still sounds like doubt, for all the cockiness of his words, he’s still asking, not demanding. He phrased it as a joke, something easily dismissed, because it is their armor. His and hers both, in a moment of vulnerability. She can feel the heat in her cheeks, the churning of her stomach. 

Answer, she must answer. 

“One step at a time, Ser Aclassi.” By sheer force of will, she makes her tongue move in her dry mouth

“What happened to calling me Krem?”

Bethany is one for diplomatic words, healing spells, and second guessing herself. So instead of a clever answer, she kisses him, low and sweet until her stomach settles. Until his thumb stops moving against her wrist.


End file.
